Cheap Imitation
by TheSilentPen
Summary: 'That's all she is, a cheap imitation of Rachel.' Quinn speaks of her experiences following her break up with Rachel.  Third in the 'Cheater' series. Don't worry, not all angst. It leads to a potentially happy ending :


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of these characters (except Dagne).

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**A/N:** Here is another story to add to the 'Cheater' series, and it's an angsty story, although the end leads off for positive (or negative) stories in the future. I'm in the process of writing the next one right now. I'd REALLY appreciate it if you'd all take a little time to offer some constructive criticism, so reviews are nice :) That being said THANK YOU for clicking on this story and reading. I'd love to hear what you guys think, and I'm even happier if you enjoy the story :)

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**Cheap Imitation**

_TheSilentPen_

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'_I will never fall in love again_.'

You've told yourself that repeatedly, ever since the day that you crushed Rachel Berry's fragile heart into fine little bits of dust.

You cheated. You climbed into bed like some cheap whore with the school's **very** gay Quarterback, Sam Evans, to prove that you **weren't** as much of a sinner as your father claimed you were.

Forget the fact that you had been dating Rachel Berry for nearly several months before said scandal. Forget the fact that you had always been **proud** to have her within your arms. Forget the fact that your father's words had never hurt until you'd felt so **betrayed** by her 'cheating' actions.

She was with you, true… but she never looked truly happy to be with you.

After all, you'd terrorized her for years, trying to get her to bend to your will. Trying to get her to submit to your unwanted wiles. The only reason that she was with you in the first place was because she **pitied** the crying, upset sinner in the bathroom that day.

She never said yes before.

So it's okay to cheat.

After all, you'd seen her with Finn… with Puck.

She'd smile so willingly, so easily at him. Release those lovely, melodious little laughs for them at will, when you had to try with all your might to even render a simple smile to those perfect, cherry red lips.

But you'd hurt her so badly.

Her face was broken, torn asunder by your grasping attempts to feel 'normal' for once (after all, under the sting of your father's broken beer bottles, you'd **never** felt normal… not with his mad screams of '**sinner!'** '**fag!'** and '**disgrace!**'). Her angry shouts had hurt more than **any** punishment you'd ever endured before.

So you drift endlessly through the halls of William McKinley High, whoring yourself off to Evans, Puckerman, and even Finn Hudson on several occasions. Forget the fact that you're with one while you sleep with the other. Forget the taunts that you throw Rachel's way as she strolls down the halls, ignoring your presence.

Wash her sacred, gentle touch away with the blundering, rough abuse of man. **Beg** for them to **use** your pathetic body, **beg** for **abuse** to erase those soft smiles and worshipping caresses that she exchanged with you **so** many times before.

Use them as penance for your sorry soul. Use them to **forget** Rachel Berry.

But one day, after many months of stumbling drunkenly from man to man, you meet her.

You meet Dagne Eastrule.

She's a Senior from Carmel High, just transferred over after moving closer to the more 'ghetto' areas of Lima.

You first see her standing in the hallway, attempting to open her new locker, frustration etched into her delicate features.

You walk over to the brunette, smiling softly and offering to open her locker.

And she looks up at you, grinning sheepishly in response, nervously chuckling in a melodious alto as she steps away from the wall.

As you pound away at the lock, jiggling it, you take in the brunette's appearance from the corner of your eye, and you see, if only for a split second…

You see Rachel.

Dagne Eastrule shares the same chocolate hair, the same bangs falling cleanly across delicate, if not fragile features. The same tanned, smooth skin drawn in taut, lean muscle. The same short stature, and an equally beautiful, heart-wrenching voice and smile.

But in place of soulful, crimson brown eyes that pierce unnervingly into your hazel orbs, Dagne holds warm, kind gray orbs that peer restlessly from almond (decidedly exotic) shaped lids.

Dagne does not have **her** jutting, Jewish nose either. No, instead it is finely carved, chiseled to every bit of perfection… And she doesn't wear those annoying knee high socks or ugly animal sweaters.

No, Dagne Eastrule is well-dressed in a simple brown blouse (which has ample cleavage, you note with an appraising eye as you turn to face her) and form-fitting jeans that hug every curve of her shapely legs.

But somehow, Rachel is there, staring up at you for the first time in months. Staring at you through the eyes of one who so unnervingly reminds you of her.

And you're drawn to it.

So you begin to find yourself around Dagne much more than any other person. Time once spent sulking with Santana and Brittany is instead spent quietly talking to each other with shy eyes and bated breath. Nights spent in the embrace of some nameless man's arms are traded for 'date' nights at Breadstix, smiling and laughing at one another.

And it occurs to you how terrible you truly were to Rachel.

There were moments such as these, where you and Rachel would find yourselves at Breadstix, sitting across from one another, eating silently.

Rachel would look at you with soft eyes, smiling gently as she enquired after every aspect of your day. She'd hold out a shy hand beneath the table and grasp your unwilling fingers loosely in her warm, soft digits. She'd pay the bill, then escort you out like a proper partner.

And you? You'd sneer and scoff at her attempts. You declared that nothing she did was ever enough. And why would it be when **she** had more than you. She had **love** and **smarts**. She had **beauty** and **people** who wanted her.

You would **never** have what Rachel had, so wasn't it just and right that she give more? You had nothing, she had plenty. It was right to share with someone you loved.

But you'd gone overboard and driven her away, even after everything she'd done.

After the economic crash, Rachel took up a job to help her Dads pay for their house. She didn't mind working, she'd come home with a smile on her face everyday, chuckling about some little story at the workplace.

You, being as possessive as you were, attributed it to someone special at the workplace. And thus, you demanded that she didn't spend enough time with you.

So Rachel dropped some shift hours and piled them up on to extra days to accommodate your claims. But when she was with you, you saw the shadows of sleeplessness beneath her eyes. You saw how she drifted off to sleep after working nearly nine hours a day right after school.

And you saw it as another thing to shoot at her. Something else to scoff about.

With Dagne, however, you were everything that you **weren't** with Rachel, and it makes you feel guilty every time you smile. Every time you hold her loosely within your arms. Because every time that Dagne looks at you, you see Rachel standing there in the doorway of your room, angry and broken. You relive the end of your first love, your **only** love, every agonizing moment.

You don't deserve to be happy when Rachel is not.

But when you look at Rachel for the first time in months, you don't see a broken person.

She's sitting side by side with Puck in the risers during Glee, arm thrown around his neck as the two of them laugh, singing purposely off key and in several random dialects. Kurt's sitting next to her, smiling slightly as he and Blaine cuddle close together. He takes a moment to pull gently on Rachel's arm and smile, whispering into her ear.

And you correct that statement in your head as your mouth dries.

You don't want Rachel to be happy **without** you.

The night of the party, as you lose yourself in the stinging taste of alcohol, you find yourself pulled away from a rather ravenous young man by soft, familiar arms. You sink heavily into them without warning, reveling in their comfort.

The smell of sandal oil pervades the air as you bury your face into a delicate neck, wrenched out of your moment of security as the individual places you gently onto the bed.

It's Rachel.

The girl has long since lost the ridiculously short skirts and equally questionable sweaters in favor of tight jeans, fitted tees, and the occasional argyle hoodie. It's a sort of boyish look, but never has Rachel looked better. Brown locks, slightly longer now, cascade down her shoulders in delicate waves as a gold Star of David necklace occupies a chain about her neck.

Those rich, reddish brown eyes look deeply into your hazel orbs for the first time in months, a shadow of their previously gentle, smiling sheen. Now they are guarded, only allowing the tiniest amount of concern to shine through. Still, it's better than the steel eyed gaze she gives you as she roams the halls.

Before you even know what's happening, you've grabbed her, pulling her to you unwillingly, settling your lips upon hers without care.

And the kiss is just as breathtaking as it was before you'd made that **awful** mistake a year ago. Her lips are soft, chapped, and you can taste the new, addicting taste of the mint and coffee that stains the petals.

But just as quickly as you taste them, they are wrenched away from you as she stumbles backwards, her eyes radiating that same fearful, hurt expression from a year ago.

You try to reason with her, to explain that you **really** do regret what happened a year ago. But all that halts when she simply looks at you, eyes shining with tears and unspoken terror, simply stating:

"You're drunk, Quinn."

And as she leaves the room, you call after her, wanting that spicy scent against your nose once more, wanting to feel her lithe body against yours, wanting to feel your lips against hers. But she doesn't listen.

So you cry. You cry for the first time in months, curling in on yourself and clutching desperately at the pain your heart has sent jolting through your body.

But gentle arms are soon around you, and they feel just about the same as Rachel's. But as you curl into them, you notice the tame odor of lavender wafting nauseatingly to your nose instead of that strong, spicy perfume from moments before.

It's Dagne, you know it is. But you wish that it was **Rachel** who was holding you in her arms. **Rachel** who was kissing your forehead. And **Rachel** who cared about you more than anything else in the world.

But all you have is Dagne, the girl who looks like her, but isn't **truly** her.

So you allow your drunk mind to delude yourself. You pretend that instead of the silky surface of Dagne's aqua blue dress, you feel the coarse texture of Rachel's shirt and the scratch of her jeans. Instead of the smooth cashmere of Dagne's white cardigan, the softness of Rachel's cheap argyle hoodie lies between your fingers.

You pretend that instead of compassionate grays looking to you softly, stormy, intuitive auburn look into your hazel orbs and challenge your character. Make you feel vulnerable.

And you fall asleep that night, so fitfully for the first time in a **long** time.

The next day, you find yourself looking at Rachel as she sorts through the books in her locker, whistling merrily as she exchanges the first four books for the last three of the day. The girl curses as her music binder clatters roughly to the ground, bending over to pick it up.

Your eyes flick over to Dagne, as she walks to you with a large smile stained to her lips, grabbing you in your daily hug as you murmur a faint hello, returning the embrace with a light squeeze.

You look over the girl's shoulder, and you see brown eyes staring emotionlessly at you, features equally stoic. Without another word, the girl slams her locker shut, putting those marvelous eyes to the ground, walking past you in a gust of spicy air.

Your eyes close as you try to fool your mind into believing the girl in your arms is the one you kissed the other night. That you truly **do** love her.

But you don't. You **cannot** love her beyond a friend. Your mind can't fool itself anymore.

Dagne is nothing but a cheap imitation of Rachel. The perfect mold, but nothing more, nothing less.

And your heart won't let you have anything less than the original.

…So you knot your hands in Dagne's shirt, allowing this one last moment of her feeling remotely **no** ill will towards you… because you know that you aren't going to settle for a clone.

You smile faintly.

No, you're going to get the original.


End file.
